Alike
by the upward glance
Summary: A study of sadism and psychopathy featuring their two best representatives: Marik and Bakura, two serial killers on the loose in NYC. AU. Contains tender, thief, angst, and psycho shippings in various degrees. ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.
1. Heart

**A/N: Oh hey. So...I'm in a REALLY sadistic mood. So...I've concocted something awful. And beautiful. Eventually it'll be Psychoshipping, but we have to work up to that, kay? This is a kinda a prologue, a taste of my demented mind. **

**Warning: Violence. A lot of it. Nothing terribly graphic, but it's not sugar coated. Also language. **

Marik plunged the ten inch blade into his victim's chest. It was a knife from the unfortunate boy's kitchen. He loved the idea of undoing his prey with one of their own belongings. He had no way of knowing whether they realized the irony of his methods; but he did. And, after all, that's really all that mattered. It was as if, in a way, they cut out their own hearts. 

They purchased the item with their own money, which they earned through their own conscious volition. It wasn't a method of evasion; Marik knew full well that his carnivorous will brought them to their untimely ends. It simply pleased him, another gear in the complex machine that was his homicidal ritual. With deft movements, he extricated the heart from its woefully fragile container. He relished this moment, when the warm blood sluiced freely, coating his tanned hand. He brought his blood soaked fingers to his mouth and sucked the substance off, biting them in his frenzy. Blood mingled with blood; two souls became one. 

"Ahahahaha!" his maniacal laugh rang loudly through the apartment. "Oh god! Mmmmmnnnnn we're made for each other! You're blood, my skin! So beautifully we fit together..." The boy laying underneath him managed a few unintelligible gurgles before succumbing to his fatal wound. Marik cupped the heart between his hands as one would regard a flawless diamond. It beat one last time, a horribly pathetic squirm. He kissed it like a groom would kiss his new bride. 

"So pretty...just like you. Too bad, nothing ever lasts. But, take heart," another peal of unearthly laughter broke through the room in manner with which a lightning bolt handles so much empty, meaningless sky, "a part of you shall live on, forever, with me." A new piece for his priceless collection. After all, how can one measure the value of a human heart? 

Marik cradled the lifeless body in his arms as a child would a doll, stroking the boy's blonde hair lovingly. His hands started shaking, and soon he was digging his nails into his scalp, drawing blood and skin. He hungrily kissed blue lips, his breathing ragged and uneven. As his fingers traversed sticky skin, he felt his arousal growing. 

"You're mine! You're fucking mine..."

* * *

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" the scream was as glorious as a Tchaikovsky symphony to Bakura's ears. He had sliced off Ryou's left pinky finger. Quickly, he dragged Ryou to their mess of a kitchen and cauterized the wound upon the electric stove, resulting in more screams, more Christmas presents. Such a beautiful finger, it was. Long, slender, with a perfectly manicured nail. 

"Shhhh don't cry Ryou, don't cry. You're still beautiful. Your hand—it's still beautiful. You're even more beautiful, darling. Because your flawed, noticeably. From my doing." He took the boy back to their bedroom, locking the shackles upon Ryou's scarred wrists.

"Are you hungry, Ryou?" the smaller boy managed a feeble nod. "I'll get you a pudding cup." 

Bakura returned to the kitchen and grabbed a pudding from the rather desolate refrigerator, as well as a tarnished spoon from the drawer. He kneeled before the crumpled dove, lifting his head,

"Open wide Baby RyRy," Ryou complied as quickly as he could and was rewarded with a spoonful of chocolate pudding. "That's a good boy. Look. I'm sorry about the finger. But...I kept staring at it day after day and...I don't know. It was like...I needed that finger to be severed from your hand. So I could hold it, caress it...but it's okay. No real harm done right?" Ryou nodded once more, got another spoonful. 

He would never kill Ryou. No. No, no, no. No. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Not like the others. He loved Ryou; Ryou was beautiful. He was like Jesus. He brooked all of Bakura's sins. All the murders, all the torture, everything. He was like a sponge, a big sponge that absorbed blood and bile and semen and hate. He never judged, he never scorned. He accepted, and still loved Bakura. He always would. 

As he fed Ryou another spoonful he continued, "You know. It's unfair you should have to carry all your shit and mine besides. But. Life's so fucking unfair, isn't it? It's a lesson in not allowing your back to break from all the shit piled on it. I'm making you stronger, Ryou. I'm making you stronger everyday. I'm God, and you're Jesus. You're my son; you're me. I'm you; We're all one. You see? None of it really matters. And it's terribly important. My pain becomes yours. So, it's like I'm looking in a mirror when I see your fucked up figure. And it's beautiful. Because it's me, and you. And that's like, the ultimate truth. But it doesn't matter too," another spoonful. "'Cause there will be a time when the pain will hold no hurt. It'll just be so much air. And we'll be free, Ryou...Ryou? Ryou do you love me?"

"Y-yes...Bakura...of-of course I love you..." Ryou was exhausted.

"I knew it. I knew you did. I knew it."

**So...yeah. In case you're wondering, the kid Marik murders ISN'T Malik. Just some random person. I just realized that maybe it could be construed that way. **

**I thought this was delicious. But that's just me.**

**Hehehe**

**R&R please?**


	2. The S to my M

**A/N: Hihi! I find it funny that both of my Chapter 2 updates are Malik chapters. Hehehe I must dedicate this one to LadyBlackwell, too. I figured I would have to introduce Malik into this fic, and she gave me the inspiration. I love you baby! ;) This chappie is light on the sheer horror of the previous one...I hope that's not too disappointing...There shall be more to come I promise! ^^**

**Warning: Some brief language. Dasssss ittttttt**

Malik stood before his floor length mirror. He wore a deep cut black v-neck, a pair of black skinny jeans, black heeled boots, and a pair of gold earnings—the only adornment. The shirt was just small enough to reveal a sliver of his bronzed abdominals; it was a veritable shaft of sunlight—a ray of hope—piercing so many forbidding thunderclouds. In response to the image he encountered, Malik formed a derisive smile that brimmed with bitterness, contempt, and twisted delight. Bitterness: because he was a joke; contempt: because he perpetuated the joke; twisted delight: because he loved bringing himself to this. It was a blatant charade, his dressing this way. Yet, no one appeared to see beyond the slim form, the exposed flesh. He considered his life a slow death, a never-ending funeral; black was his corollary color. 

There was a time when he believed that life had meaning, dreams were possible to achieve, and suffering wasn't the hallmark of existence. He quickly destroyed such naivete. However, one desire did endure from his starry-eyed youth: the desire for perfection. If he couldn't reach an honorable perfection, he would get it's reciprocal, that is, a depraved perfection. Malik sought the most morally bankrupt person he could; it was an obsession. That's why he frequented these parties. It seemed the slime of the earth oozed onto the dance floor. No one fit his concept, though. They always ended up being weak, afraid, and guilty; they endeavored with all their meager consciousnesses to evade their hideous nature. He wanted unabashed acceptance, a man who spilled blood and bathed in it besides. He would succeed, it was imperative. Malik fetched his Gucci clutch, and was out the door in a swift stride. 

A friend of a friend of a friend—some yuppie by the name of Yami Something-or-other—was throwing a soiree at his Upper West Side apartment. Malik cringed with disgust upon entering: the place was a repugnant hodgepodge of baroque, rococo, and modernist furniture. He was greeted with a pathetically sanctimonious air by a somewhat short, tri-color haired man,

"And you would be?"

"Ishtar. A mutual friend of ours invited me."

"Oh...who?"

"Who the fuck cares? Are you gonna let me in?"

"Hm. I guess you act every bit the bitch you dress as," the host, apparently Yami, sneered at him whilst stepping aside to admit Malik.

"That's so clever! Maybe if you grew a couple of inches I might consider your poorly constructed epithet with an iota of my conscious," Malik returned as he breezed past the slighter fellow without granting him his gaze. 

He beelined for the bar, realizing that enduring the anemic music and even more anemic conversations he heard would require a heavy buzz. He ordered a vodka on the rocks, downing it with ease before asking for another. It was the only liquor he drank, for it was clean and sharp, like the stabbing of a sword. The second he nursed with a tad more decorum as he cast his contemptuous gaze across the sea of imposters. The fashion was a season or so out of tune and the laughter was several decibels too loud. _Mmmmm. Just the way I like it. _He made a nest in the corner of the living room with an ideal view of the doorway. After half an hour of making half-ditched attempts at maintaining conversations with the people who so desperately accosted him and keeping an eye on the stream of shit that poured through the entrance, he was suddenly rewarded for his patience. 

It was the mane of silver that first struck him. The manner with which the hall light refracted off the man's hair blinded Malik's eyes as would the high-beams of a trailing car one sees in his rearview mirror. It was the attire he noticed next. The pale man wore a pair of tattered jeans and a mostly unbuttoned dress shirt. The way he dressed seemed to suggest an effortless casualness, as if the man had nothing to hide. Malik knew better; he knew the clothing was a way of saying that the wearer had _everything_ to hide, and a dare for the person who understood this to unravel the enigma. Finally, the power of the man's eyes reached him. They were empty and simultaneously brimming with knowledge. And there was a ferocious glimmer that lurked in the periphery, like the illumination of a lighthouse experienced by a distant ship through a diaphanous fog. Those dirt colored eyes turned to Malik's lilac ones with a startling alacrity. It was a contest—a contest Malik desperately wanted to lose, yet refused to allow himself to. The man simply smirked and walked away, blending in with the crowd and mocking Malik's attempt at strength. The blonde was left breathless. He could feel the danger molesting his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Finally, he met a force worth challenging. _He...he's the one...I know it. My bones tell me so. He's evil. I know it. My bones tell me so. And soon, he is going to unleash that evil on me. And I shall sip perfection from a gilded champagne flute. Oh yes, Albino. I shall be the substance beneath your malicious tread. And both of us will smile demented smiles that flicker wretchedly in pale moonlight. _Malik made his way to the patio and hoped his new friend would follow. He rested his sweating glass of vodka on the balcony, instead drinking up the infinite lights of the city he encountered. _This always makes me feel so fucking small. I love it. _Then inexplicably, he felt as though he should turn around_. _He about-faced to the Albino. Malik parted his mouth as if to say something, but instead formed a coy grin. 

"You're quite beautiful." Malik couldn't help but laugh at this annunciation. It was the most obvious thing anyone could have said, and consequently the last thing he expected that stranger to say. The man smirked in turn, "If you understand that, then it would seem I made the right decision to talk to you."

"Indeed. I'm like no man you've ever met, or could hope to meet."

"That's quite the promise."

"It is. But I know that you are confident of my ability to pull off such a statement."

"Really?"

"Yes. 'Cause you didn't sneer, and didn't walk away. Your face did not change at all, as though my voice and the message behind it were a gentle breeze."

The man closed the distance between them, approaching within centimeters of Malik's face. "You're a smart one...you should know, then, that I'm dangerous," he said in a heated whisper.

"I do. It excites me," Malik replied with a simple, one shouldered shrug.

"Isn't there some apropos bromide like, 'Those who play with fire get burned?'"

"Oh, darling! I'm counting on you scorching my skin!"

The man emitted a primeval moan, as if responding to a quality he had been seeking subconsciously and just realized. "What's your name, Man in Black?"

"Tsk tsk. I thought you would know better than to ask that. I guess I struck a chord. But. I will give you my number." Malik drew a pen from his clutch and traced his number on the translucent skin of the man's right forearm. "I hope you won't disappoint me again, Albino."

The man savagely seized Malik's left wrist he turned to leave, "Who said you could leave, pretty boy?"

"I did."

The pale stranger snickered in turn, relinquishing Malik's wrist, "The Perfect Prey."

"The Perfect Predator." And with that, Malik sashayed out of the apartment and into the nebulous night.

**A/N: Sorry if that was short...but I wanted the Malik/Bakura dynamic to play out slow and smooth. No Marik or Ryou in this one. But they shall be back soon!**

**And I needed a character to throw a party, so I picked Yami. I kinda thought his cameo was hilarious. Bahahaha **

**I apologize to any fangirls who were harmed by this portrayal. Hehe**

**R&R por favor! ^^**


	3. Let's Dance

**A/N: Hewow! Sorry this update was so late coming...I was struggling with my will to write, my confidence in my stories, as well as my depression in general. I had a pretty shit week. -_- ANYVAYYYYYZZZZ I hope this update lives up to expectations...^^**

**Warning: Language, a little abuse, and a murder scene(s). Delicioso...hehehe**

Ryou quivered in his semi-conscious state. He hadn't slept properly in years; his nighttime hours were spent vacillating between reality and the illusory. His pathetic excuse for slumber resembled that of a person who was enduring a savage fever: he felt vague motion and nausea, fear, and helplessness. 

_Ryou is sitting in a darkened living room with his father, watching a movie on television. The light of the screen sporadically illuminates the room, making it appear as if this, too, is a movie. On the screen before him, a woman is walking with stealth through an abandoned warehouse, afraid the murderer is behind every corner. She puts her back to a stack of crates and breathes a sigh of relief, feeling as though she has escaped him. A hand is then placed on her shoulder and she shrieks with terror. She about faces and finds it's her friend, who quickly tries to silence her. He reassures her, telling her everything will be alright. At that precise moment, a axe swiftly removes the man's left ear from his head. His shock overwhelms his pain, and is unable to make a sound. The woman screams once again, and flees. The side of the axe strikes the man across the face and his falls to the ground with a heavy thud. The killer then brings the axe down in an endless stream of chops in the general area of the man's asshole. Copious amounts of blood and wretched screams fill the air. Ryou finds that his heart is beating furiously, and that a smile is plastered on his face. He then turns his attention away from the screen and to his father, whose face has been replaced with that of Bakura. "Daddy, don't you like this movie?"_

"_No, son," he says with a deceptive smile, "it's not my taste." He brings the boy from the green carpet of the living room to his lap. "Why don't we do something else, okay? Something more...fun."_

"_Okay Daddy!" _

_Father/Bakura takes the young Ryou off into the bedroom, and the door shuts with an awful crack.*_

Ryou awoke in a start. He found himself breathless and coated with a sheen of cold sweat that reflected crudely off his battered, translucent skin. _Bakura_, he thought, _Did he just open and shut the front door?_ The hurried steps of his master traversing the apartment confirmed his impression.

"Ryou! I have incredible news!" said Bakura as he rushed into the bedroom. Ryou was a heap on the floor, his hands chained above his head. Bakura took a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the shackles. In turn, Ryou submissively rested his hands in this lap, gently—and subtly—massaging his wrists.

"Thank you, 'Kura," Ryou endeavored to muster enthusiasm and a phantasmic smile before continuing, "What news do you bring?"

"I met a beautiful and strange boy at this party tonight...he seemed to see straight through me...but what's more, he loved what he found...it was like a taste you discover and can't get enough of. Both of us felt that; I know it. Our encounter was much too short, though. But! He did give me his number, see?" Bakura indicated his right forearm with the excitement of a child on Christmas Eve, "So I'm sure we'll meet again!"

"Oh...so...you've tired of me...? He is to be...my replacement?" Ryou thought that if he still had the capacity to cry, searing tears would be cascading down his wilted face. He didn't want Bakura to tire of him...he didn't know what that meant. It was an impossibly frightening concept. Like, working through a horribly complex mathematical proof only to find that you made a mistake along the way and all that effort was for nought, or that there was never an answer to be had. 

Suddenly, Bakura was aware of Ryou's presence. This whole time, he felt as though he were addressing himself in the mirror. Ryou's questioned slowly permeated through the membrane of his fractured conscious. The ebullient and irrational joy he experienced before transformed into a seething hate. He slapped Ryou viciously across the face.

"How could you say such a thing? How could you be so disgustingly selfish? Have I EVER given you cause to doubt my love?"

Ryou hesitantly raised his mangled hand to his left cheek, "N-no of course not..." Ryou tried hard to shrink in size.

"You know I love you! I prove it to you everyday to you, Ryou! Do I not?"

Ryou flung himself at Bakura's feet, kissing them, and clutching his bony ankles, "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry Bakura! I-I didn't mean to hurt you! P-please, please forgive me!" Ryou's mind wasn't strong enough to consider that he was crying now, to consider why he could cry for Bakura's suffering, but not his own.

Bakura gathered the boy from the floor and pressed his head against his bosom, stroking his disheveled hair with an odd affection. It was as if the action and words he spoke were for himself more than Ryou, "Hush, hush. I know you didn't...perhaps I didn't explain well...this boy, Malik, is to be a new friend, for the both of us. He shall be your brother...yes...your brother. And he shall love you almost as much as I. We'll be a beautiful family...so beautiful...Jesus, Joseph, and Mary...the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit...don't fear. And don't cry. It'll be so beautiful, so perfect, so happy." Ryou's hysterical, hyperventilating sobs had quieted considerably. Now he only breathed laboriously, panting like a dog. Bakura reclined on the bed, with Ryou atop him.

The whisper the entered Ryou's left ear was laced with lust, adoration, and insanity, "Do...do you want me to show you again how much I love you...how no one can ever compare to your beauty?" Ryou rubbed his damp cheek against the exposed flesh of Bakura's chest in affirmation. "Good...that's a good boy...such a good boy my Ryou is..." With that, he broke Ryou's shoulder in an precise crack. The surprised and anguished howl he received has like a passionate kiss. "Oh Ryou! How I fucking love your screams...they're like the singing of a chorus of God's most favored angels." He sloppily kissed Ryou's neck, and proceeded to ruthlessly take him. The rhythmic motion that rocked Ryou's head back and forth was reminiscent of the compulsive movements a lunatic performs in his padded cell.

After Bakura was finished, he dressed and left the apartment once again. Ryou felt awkward and empty, though he was glad Bakura didn't replace the shackles and chains.

* * *

Marik made his way through the mass of sweaty, grinding forms to the ray of light he encountered near the bar. Marik could feel the intense beat of the music that blared in the club shake his flesh and rattle his bones; it empowered him, making him bolder and savager. He walked with an effortless and erotic swagger, propelled by his desire to destroy. That ray of light was a small boy who Marik couldn't believe was at least the requisite 21. He had short blonde and feathered hair, pale skin, a slender form, and rosy cheeks-either from the alcohol, the scantily clad people that gyrated before him, the heat that seemed to pervade the place, or any combination thereof. He clutched his drink as though it were a life preserver; the high ball of bourbon seemed much too heavy him. He looked like a child lost at an amusement park, excited by the sights, yet afraid to be all alone; like a nun in a whorehouse, brimming with misplaced innocence. He blushed and lowered his eyes when the tall, dark, and muscular Egyptian stopped before him. Marik gently lifted his chin and donned an irresistible, toothsome grin,

"This your first time in a club, you pretty little thing?"

The boy flushed several shades darker, approaching the color of a finely aged Bordeaux, "Y-yes it is..."

"Aw, there's no need to be afraid of me! I couldn't help but notice you were standing all by your lonesome over here...holding onto your drink for dear life..."

The boy laughed embarrassedly, "Haha yeah...I guess I was..."

"I thought it was cute." Marik placed his hands on the boy's ridiculously slim hips; Marik's hands could practically touch one another as they curled around the waist of his new friend. He began to sway lightly with the music, "Say what's your name?"

"Uh-um it's Justin..."

"Mmmmm Justin...I bet you're a greaaaaat dancer! Why don't you join me on the floor? I loooooove The Sound of Arrows' remix of Alejandro**...and I'd hate to groove to such a freakin' sexy song all by myself..."

"You like The Sound of Arrows, too?" Justin exclaimed incredulously.

"Of course! And, I'll take that as a yes..." Marik said as he guided the boy onto the dance floor with a coy grin. Before long they were the subject of whistles and calls as they grinded ferociously, becoming one rhythmic, sensuous entity. Marik mentally smirked as he reflected on the rapidity with which he robbed Justin of his innocence. Of course, the combination of Maker's Mark and his own animal musk definitely expedited the process.

"Justin..." Marik couldn't conceal a guttural moan as Justin's ass rolled over his length, "What do you say we head back to your apartment? I'm sure all this dancing is taking its toll..." Marik rewarded Justin's expert handling with a seductive nibble on his earlobe.

"Mn...sounds g-good to-to meeee..." Justin slurred in turn.

* * *

Justin fell to his knees as he felt a blade from tip to hilt pierce his ribcage. The husky and mocking voice that whirled through his mind seemed distant, unreal, yet terribly personal,

"'You know that I love you, boy,'" Marik yanked the blade from its resting place, "'Hot like Mexico, rejoice.'" He forced the boy flush against his laminate wood flooring that was stained to resemble mahogany, savagely crushing his knee against Justin's spine, licking and sucking on the wound, guzzling blood. "'At this point I gotta choose, nothin' to lose.'" He clasped a fist-full of blonde hair in his left hand, pulling Justin's head backward, and slit his throat. "'Don't call my name, don't call my name...Little Justin..." He cackled uproariously, glad that life was filled with such simple pleasures.

**A/N: Yay! Ryou and Marik are back! :D **

**I thought I'd show a li'l Mariku seduction. I know what a club looks like, btw. I partied pretty hard at one in Barcelona. I just didn't feel like going into detail; it seems so cliché. I trust you all know what the inside of a club looks like. **

***I legit dreamed this last night, except replace me for Ryou, my Dad for Father/Bakura, and eliminate the child abuse undertones. Bahaha**

****I do not own The Sound of Arrows, their remix of Alejandro, or Alejandro. That belongs to my Mother Monster. ;) My use of the lyrics did not incur monetary benefit to me in any way, whatsoever. **

**Please R&R! ^^ **


	4. The Wolf

**A/N: This picks up right after Bakura leaves Ryou in the previous chapter, just so ya know. **

**Warning: Violence, language, a lemony situation toward the end.**

Bakura ran to the night like a spurned bride, chasing his mate with indefatigable haste. His interaction with Ryou wasn't enough; he needed the feeling of depriving a being of his life. His murders were different than most: he only killed when necessary, when his body required it, like sleep or hunger. He chose his victims carefully. The ones whose lives he abruptly ended shared two common denominators: they were young males, and they were beautiful. Bakura hated women. He had ever since he could remember. Perhaps it was the lack of a mother figure combined with a dominating father. Perhaps it was just a predisposition. In any case, he saw murder as an act of reverence, and never would he defile it by taking the life of a worthless, hideous woman. 

He loved men, their form, their taste, their pride. He loved them so much that he killed them. Only _he_ could appreciate their beauty as it should be; the longer they were alive, the more opportunities there were for them to be desecrated. He read somewhere about a woman who had bought a priceless Greek statue only to destroy it by her own hand. The horrid thought of countless, vile, contemptible humans looking upon such a work of art exceed any possible joy of possessing it.* Bakura considered his hobby in the same light. He didn't see it as something charitable, as though he were saving them. He knew better than that. He knew he was a demon of some sort. His murders were the consummation of selfishness, and he loved it. So he made his way to the Meatpacking District, on the prowl. Bakura didn't really care if people recognized him. He had no way of knowing if others had put two and two together, that the prostitutes who went with him were never heard from again. He figured nobody cared for these people, nobody would miss them, nobody would come after him seeking justice. He _did_ care for them, though, every single one of them that succumbed to his blade. 

He turned a corner and then he saw _him. _A tall, lithe, boy with hair that had the color and shine of patent leather shoes. As Bakura approached him, he saw that his hair seemed to glimmer, and then he noticed the silver streaks in his hair, like a ladle of molten silver had been poured on his crown, like the stars above had found a new firmament. He stood against a lamppost with the most arrogant of poses, with his long, right leg propped up against the pole, his hands on his hips, and his head holding an upward glance, eyes closed. 

The way he stood was a challenge, a challenge for those who could match him or surpass him to tear him asunder. He wore a navy tank top, leather pants, and gold boots that rose to his knees. The shadow that filled the hollow of his cheekbone amplified the milky color of his skin. The boy was perfect, not quite as intriguing as Malik, nor as unabashedly innocent as Ryou. Bakura knew this boy's death would hurt himself more than him. He almost hesitated, almost crossed the street to find another. Then he thought that he would go insane if another looked upon the hollow of this boy's cheekbone. 

Once Bakura was close enough, the boy turned to face him, his eyes widening slightly, his mouth upturning into a self-satisfied smirk, "Mmmm...you're quite something, stranger. I'd almost do you for free."

Bakura sniggered, "Really?"

"I said almost. A boy has to make a living, you know." He took a moment to blatantly size Bakura up, as if underscoring that only he had the right to conduct his appraisal so openly, "Can I call you White Fang?"

"Hmhm, that's clever. But no. You may call me Bakura. And you? What shall I call you?"

"What a harsh sounding handle! I love it. But, Lynx. I'm solitary, wild, and flexible."

"Delicious."

"Quite."

The amusement in Bakura's muddy-puddle eyes vanished, replaced with a torrential lust, "Come with me."

"To where," Lynx's reply was every bit the command as Bakura's.

"The Black Diamond. It's a hotel close by that they remolded from an old meatpacking warehouse. It's old, but it's cheap. And I have a feeling you're not."

"Your presentiment is accurate. I'd say I'm worth it, but that sounds so fucking cheap."

"Just a little...well?"

"Let's." 

Lynx felt bad vibes upon entering the establishment. It reminded him of one of those haunted hotels you see on those ghost hunting programs, like that one hotel from the "Redrum" movie**, whatever the fuck it was called. He shrugged it off, attributing it to age. They went to the dest and Bakura rang one of those little brass bells. A couple of seconds later a man with graying temples and cadaverous skin appeared. _Okay. He's definitely creepy._

"May I help you," the man—Abraham, his name tag testified—accosted with a rather venomous and sanctimonious voice.

"We'd like a room please, just for the night," Bakura returned with an icy politeness.

"Just a moment." 

Once they reached the room Lynx felt more at ease. He didn't notice the bellhop that had followed them and who was currently lurking in the shadows. Bakura unlocked the door and stood aside to allow Lynx to enter first,

"So, Bakura," Lynx purred as he wrapped his arms around Bakura's waist, "What can I do for you?"

Bakura cupped Lynx's face in his hands, "Love me..."

"That won't be hard at all..." Bakura moved in for the kill, harshly pressing his lips against Lynx's, thrusting his tongue into his petite mouth, receiving a deep moan from his eager partner. He moved down to Lynx's neck, sucking and marking. "Tell me I'm beautiful."

"Mn...what..."

Bakura licked Lynx's clavicle and fondled his bulge, "Tell me I'm beautiful."

"Ahhhh...B-Bakura you're beautiful..." Bakura flung Lynx on the bed, running his hands all over him, kissing him hungrily, sloppily. "Soooooo beautiful..." 

Slick skin, bestial growls, eager pumping. As Lynx came in his mouth, Bakura wanted to cry: he tasted so sweet; he wanted to guzzle this fluid everyday. He steeled his resolve and abruptly turned Lynx over on his stomach, forcing his own formidable and desperate erection into Lynx's supple asshole. _A perfect fit._ He smirked crudely and begun thrusting with wild hate, love, and despair. He knew he was being too rough, he felt the slickness of blood. But Lynx kept groaning and Bakura kept plunging. If this was to be the end, he would have his way with Lynx as fiercely, greedily, and cruelly as humanly possible. He dug his long nails into Lynx's unblemished back; he savagely yanked Lynx's hair backward and stole a delicious kiss; he wrapped his hand around Lynx's reawakening dick and stroked hatefully. He struck his prostate again and again, causing Lynx to squirm and scream and thrust his hips upward with ignominious hunger. Bakura flung his head back—his sweaty hair cracking against his back like a whip—and let forth a throaty yelp as he released ferociously, milky cum spilling out of Lynx's already crowded hole. The sound of Bakura's unearthly orgasmic exclamation brought Lynx over the edge, and he came once more, this time into Bakura's tightly drawn hand. 

The pair rested in post-coital bliss, short of breath and cohesive thought. Lynx was the first to break the silence that hung awkwardly in the room, due to the vociferous sexual calls and sounds. "Fuck...Bakura...that was like nothing I've ever felt...you're so cruel and yet so kind...goddamn I don't think I'll be able to walk straight for days..." Bakura chuckled mirthlessly in response. _My dear...my lamb...you have minutes, not days... _Lynx sensed something was amiss, "Bakura...?"

"Yes, love?"

"You did enjoy it...didn't you?" Bakura thought that Lynx's tone was like that of child not picked to be on a kickball team at recess.

"What do you think?"

"It sounded like you damn well did! But, why are you like this, then?"

Bakura's face went slack, losing all trace of emotion or humanity, "Because I have to kill you now."

"W-what?" Lynx laughed nervously, knowing he never had the best sense of humor.

The white haired man turned to face his partner, his eyes dead, "It's not a joke. I'm entirely serious. You can try to run if you want. I wouldn't suggest it. I'd rather have a nice end for you, for me."

Horror seeped into every corner of his visage, "You can't be serious...no...no! You're not a fucking killer!"

"I'm sorry, but in this instance you have made a grave miscalculation."

Lynx wanted to run; he knew he should. He'd seen his fair share of slasher flics. But...Bakura didn't look gloating or evil. He looked...sad. Like a saint before his martyrdom, as he awaits the flame to be ignited beneath him. _Does...does he want to kill me? _"Why?"

Bakura slowly closed his eyes and reached his hand out to grasp Lynx's, "Because...that's how much I love you. Because you're so beautiful. No one else can have you, no one else can see you. Only me. I'm your world. Your maker. Your God. The illustrator of your fate. You'll have peace...you'll have perfect love. _My _love. Do you see?"

Lynx had begun crying softly, without sobs, without whimpering, but with the grace of an angel, "Yes...I see."

Bakura gathered the boy in his arms, pressing his fragile frame against his frame of steel and iron girders. Lynx's head nestled underneath Bakura's chin, and Bakura whispered gently, "Tell me you love me."

"I...I love you..."

"Tell me I'm beautiful."

"You're beautiful..."

"Know that I'll love you until time collapses and crushes me...know that if there were any other way, I'd take it. But you are perfect, and you must die."

"I know it...I know it all Bakura. Would you...do something for me?"

Bakura kissed Lynx's forehead, "Anything."

"Will you kiss me while you do it?"

A sad and loving smile formed on Bakura's mouth, "Yes..." He tilted Lynx's head up, and leaned in. His kiss of death was reminiscent of resting one's lips on the tender flesh and skin of a summer peach; just as sweet. Bakura felt Lynx's mouth quiver slightly as the blade sunk deeply into his back. His breath faded, his heart slowed,

"I love you...I love you...I love you..."

Bakura lay the lifeless form gently upon the bed and allowed himself one last glance, "One day we'll meet again...until then..." He turned and exeunted. The bellhop met him in the hallway. Bakura didn't permit him his gaze, "Clean up. Make sure he rests someplace pretty."

**A/N: What's going on at this hotel? You'll have to wait and see...**

**I figured I would explain and differentiate Bakura's homicidal motives from those of Marik. **

***This is a reference to Dominique Francon from the novel _The Fountainhead_ by Ayn Rand. Dominique's sense of life at the beginning of the novel is my inspiration for Bakura's. Well, without the whole murder bit. Lol**

****The movie I am referring to is _The Shining_, directed by Stanley Kubrick. I thought it sucked. Not scary, and REALLY boring. But hey. That's just me. ;)**

**Please R&R ^^**


	5. Playtime

**A/N: Sorry this update was so delayed! Ugh, I've been dealing with a bunch o' junk. And I've had some distractions...namely _Dallas _and _Angel Sanctuary_. Hehehe...ANYVAY. I've had so many ideas as to where to go with this story, but I figured it was about time to bring Malik back, no? He just makes everything better, doesn't he? ^^ And I'd like to thank my reviewers (namely my fangirls: scrambled-eggs-at-midnight and LadyBlackwell) for making this story hit the double digit mark! I appreciate your loyalty and support with all my little black heart! (Because you kinda have to have one to write a story like this...teehee) **

**Warning: The usual. Language, abuse. **

Malik sat in nothing but a pair of Calvin Clein briefs upon one of his luxurious leather chairs, with one of his exquisitely toned legs draped over the arm. He noncommittally perused a copy of _Vanity Fair_, evincing more interest in the fashion ads than the finely wrought editorials. It was 12:30 pm. He took a precociously dainty sip from his unsweetened ice tea and replaced the sweating glass on the side table. He wasn't paying attention and nearly missed the table entirely. Luckily, he didn't drop the glass, but a splash of his beverage evacuated its container and landed on his immaculately white carpet,

"FUCK! Good thing it wasn't grape juice or something..." He stirred from the spot he had languished in since morning and sauntered into the kitchen, retrieving a bottle of Resolve from the cabinet underneath the sink. He was about to attend to the stain when his cell phone blared through the still apartment. The device happened to be close by, on the kitchen counter, "Hm. The number is 'Blocked.' Haha...I was wondering when the Albino would call." He waited until the final ring before voice mail to answer, "Hello, my mystery man."

"...How were you so sure it was me?" Bakura sensed he had erred already.

"I wasn't. Your hesitation filled in the blank, as it were."

"Ha! That redeems you for the horrendous cliché you greeted me with."

"I'm so glad."

"So. Do I get a name now?" Malik swore he detected a hint of impatience.

"Malik. Malik Ishtar," he recited his name as one would a memorized speech: evenly and without emotion.

"Doesn't that mean 'King' in Arabic?"

"Aren't you a little encyclopedia? It does. Very appropriate, I must say; I _am_ the apex of decadence."

"I wouldn't expect anything less. However, I am not a terribly wealthy man."

"I was hoping you'd think more of me than simply some money grubbing whore."

"I like to assume the worst in people."

"Touche. Though, in this instance, you would be incorrect. After all, there are many forms of excess, not all imply wealth."

"Like?"

"Sex, for one. That's my personal favorite."

His caller donned a tone of mock apology, "Forgive me, you aren't a money grubbing whore. You're just a cum bucket."

Malik didn't allow an inch of a beat to pass before continuing indifferently, "As much as this repartee amuses me, I can't help but to think this is an evasion from revealing your name."

"Perceptive, aren't we? It's Bakura. Just, Bakura."

"Mmmmm I love how those consonants dance on your tongue. I bet you can use your tongue for far more useful things than pronunciations and crude epithets."

"You would be correct."

"Glad to hear it. Well..."

"Yes?"

"You surely didn't call to 'shoot the breeze'."

"No."

"Say it, Bakura."

"...I want to see you again."

"Just 'want', dearest Bakura?"

"I...need to see you again."

"Once more."

"Fuck. You."

"I sincerely hope you will. But, before we can get to dessert, we must finish the appetizer."

"Little cunt..." the curse was followed by a pregnant pause which Malik relished with all his being, "I _need_ to see you again."

"That wasn't so hard was it? I bet very rarely do your knees touch the ground. Such a lovely tribute darling."

"Enough with your gloating. I'm getting bored."

"I wouldn't want that. How would you like to meet me in Central Park at say...midnight tonight?"

"Isn't that a tad dangerous?"

Malik smirked hideously, "Try not to ask anymore stupid questions, dearest." Malik swiftly hung up the phone, noticing the venom the filled the last word he uttered. "Utterly contemptible? Check. Wholly lecherous? Check. Fucking hot? Double check." Malik returned to his living room, cleaning solution and papers towels in hand, "Bakura..." he allowed the name to resonate through his halls as though it were the most solemn of prayers, "You just might be the most perfect man I've ever met."

* * *

Bakura sniggered as he heard the dial tone fill his right ear. He delighted in such a worthy adversary, such a worthy conquest. Aren't they the same, after all? _So beautiful...so smart...so devious...the missing piece to the puzzle. So jagged...so necessary. _He glanced at his watch, wondering as to how he would occupy his time. _Ryou could use some attention...he'll be excited to learn that the new addition shan't be long. _He gently crept in to the bedroom, realizing Ryou was still asleep on the bed—a huddled, meager form, barely leaving any indentation. He stroked the smaller boy's cheek with his index and forefingers, regarding him as one would a fragile doll. Ryou nuzzled against the tender caress. _Even in sleep I make you move. You're the tide to my shining moon. _Bakura hands hovered over Ryou's slender neck for a few seconds in abject worship before crushing it. Ryou's eyes shot open in shock, soon filling with tears. His hands weakly clutched Bakura's own in a maladroit attempt at protest,

"B-Bakura...ple-e-e-aseeee..."

"Ryou...you know better. It's not bedtime yet."

"I-I'm s-s-sorr..."

"Do you want me to put you back in your shackles now? You were being such a good boy..."

"N-n-no...c-can't b-b-rea..." Bakura suddenly relented his cruel grip. When he saw how lamely the boy before him struggled for air, he felt a pang of pity.

Bakura's face radiated beneficence, "Oh Ryou. You know I'm just taking care of you, don't you."

Ryou gazed upon his face, eyes—still bleary from his lack of oxygen—filling up with his usual devotion, "Of course, Bakura," his voice was small and raspy, "It was my fault, I'm sorry..."

Bakura kissed Ryou chastely on the lips, "It's okay. I wanted to tell you the good news."

"Y-yes?" Ryou tried to nod eagerly.

"I'm seeing Malik tonight, you remember the boy I told you about?"

"Uh-huh."

"Soon Ryou. Soon I shall have a wife and you shall have a brother, and we'll all be so happy. You can wait a little longer, can't you?"

"Forever, if it pleased you."

"That's a good boy." 

Once Bakura left again Ryou felt safe falling asleep. Even though his sleep was a mockery of comfort, it was the only comfort he had, besides Bakura's touch. He hated it when he left; it made him feel as though he were the adrift and drowning, all alone. As he descended into slumber, his dreams turned Nightmare came again, the one he hated so much.

"_Ryou...Ryou...wake up sleepy boy...I said wake up!"_

_Ryou awoke from the harsh backhand, "D-Daddy...?", his little hands rubbed the sleep from his eyes._

"_It's time to play."_

"_Daddy...I'm tired..."_

"_I don't give a damn if you're tired or not! This is my house, and you are mine as well."_

"_You said the game was fun...after we watched that movie you said the game would be fun. But it hurts Daddy! It hurts a lot...I don't like it. I don't want to play it any more."_

_His father's laugh frightened him more than anything he had ever seen on the T.V., "What makes you think you have a choice." The older man twisted Ryou's arm painfully, eliciting a high pitched squeal, "Are you sure you don't want to play?"_

"_N-no!"_

_He twisted harder, "Are you really sure?"_

"_N-no!"_

_He twisted until he heard a sharp crack and a resounding scream, "Look what you made me do you dumb fuck! You're so goddamn useless! But we're still gonna play whether you like it or not, no matter how much you scream. No one's coming for you Ryou. Because nobody gives a fuck about a useless insect like you!"_

"_I do."_

_Two sets of eyes turned swiftly to the doorway where a shadow stood. Ryou couldn't see his savior, just the brightness of the hall light behind him; it made him look like a shining angel, a shining angel of mercy. He knew it was a male, he could always hear his voice as clear as crystal. The voice was hard, full of assurance and defiance. _

_Then everything went hazy, "Help me..."_

_Ryou heard a muffled voice growing more and more distant, "I'll always be here...always..." And he heard so many screams, so many awful screams._

Ryou woke up slowly, drenched in saline from sweat and tears. He felt even more alone, if that were possible. He nuzzled his pillow desperately, sobbing meekly, "Bakura...come back...come back soon..."

* * *

Malik stood underneath a solitary lamppost, shivering slightly. He was clad in a black long-sleeved shirt of jersey fabric, a pair of white skinny jeans, black pumps, and white leather gloves. He regretted not taking his fur jacket, but he felt he always managed to look like a marshmallow in layers. Malik figured winter clothing would never suit his Egyptian essence. It was only September. _Why am I shivering? It i-isn't even that c-cold. Could it be that I'm n-nervous? Ha! No. N-no man can do that to m-me. Besides, I have a felling he isn't even h-human. _He heard a the sound of willful footsteps and endeavored to cease his clattering. It turned out to be a jogger. _Fuck! I'm letting this B-Bakura get under my s-skin. Dammit! I shouldn't have p-picked the fucking P-Park! Not only is it c-creepy, but it's out-of-fucking-d-doors. Why the hell I'm I d-doubting myself? And why the hell am I s-struggling to fucking t-talk? It's my goddamn th-thoughts! _His shivering returned in spades. Then he felt hot breath ghost over his exposed neck, and heard a mocking voice trickle into his ear,

"All this fuss over me? I guess I should be flattered."

Malik spun around incredulously, betraying his usual steely indifference, "How did you—"

"That doesn't matter, pet. What does matter is how I'm going to get you to my apartment..." Bakura hands encircled Malik's petite waist.

Against all the voices in his head screaming against this action, Malik found himself leaning into Bakura's embrace, fisting his black tank-top between his own nimble bronzed fingers. "I'm not that easy..." his voice sounded as though it were filtered through the prism of a dream, and wasn't very convincing.

Bakura smirked lopsidedly, "I'm sure. But...doesn't it get tiresome...this...attempt at stolidity and strength? Wouldn't you rather just give in? Isn't that what you want _so_ much?"

"Y-yes..." Malik was almost inaudible.

"Then why not?"

Malik's eyes were burning. He knew Bakura was seducing him, that his words should bounce right off him. They weren't; they were reaching that part of his psyche he didn't want to be reached. Malik couldn't allow himself to be vulnerable, but he felt like a little child in Bakura's arms, "I can't!"

Bakura didn't expect the wounded and despairing tone of Malik's voice, "What do you mean...? Why do you sound that way?"

Malik took Bakura's hesitance to extricate himself from his tendrils, to gather his wits, "Hm. I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"What?"

"This date was just to tide you over. I'm a busy bee, and I have many flowers to pollenate. Though rest assured, you are my most precious. I want us to burn slowly for now. Soon, we can turn up the heat."

A flash of anger shot across Bakura's eyes, "As much as you like to think you hold all the cards in this little game, you don't." Bakura roughly clenched Malik's wrists, "While I find it refreshing to encounter a boy who doesn't simply throw himself at my feet, I am growing tired of this act. When I want something I take it. I have no patience, I guess that makes me terribly childish. I find it efficient. Now. I'll let you flutter off to screw some closeted businessman or slutty waiter, but only after you answer my question."

"And what question would that be?"

"Why won't you come back with me tonight, right now, when you want to so fucking badly that you can't even stop yourself from hardening against me?"

Malik's cold laugh mocked the both of them, "You answered your own question. It's specifically because I want you that I shall turn around and go home and jerk off to thoughts of our intimate moment." He gave Bakura a wink, "Mull over that on your way home. Ciao."

As soon as he was no longer facing Bakura, Malik's face went slack. His strength was spent. _That was too fucking close. Much too much. Goddamn him. And thank God for him._

**A/N: I hope that was a good Malik fix! He has something going on in his head...something gloriously demented! And what about Ry-Ry's lil nightmare? Much to ponder, ne? **

**As always, please R&R! ^^**


	6. Everything Hurts

**A/N: Wow. I can't believe I whipped up this next chapter so quickly. Also, it's my longest one so far! Woot! I guess that's an accomplishment, right? Hehe Anyway, I needed to finally get Marik and Bakura to meet, because at the beginning of this whole thing I promised Psychoshipping, and I never renege on my promises. :) So yeah, I had to do that. Meh. Took long enough, right? Oh. And I have a new OC! Yay! And this one won't be murdered in the same chapter in which he is introduced! Double yay! There isn't any blood and gore in this chappie... :( I iz sowee! But, there is some yummy angst and exposition! That really isn't much compensation, is it? Lol I've rambled on too long. Read on darlings!**

**Warning: Language**

Marik felt like getting shit-faced. There were times, despite his utter lack of empathy, where he was seized by fits of disgust with his actions. He would start shaking uncontrollably, if he were holding a bottle of beer it would fall to the floor and shatter, basting it with its tangy essence. He would run to the bathroom and look in the mirror. He would find a skeletal and hideous face lacking eyes, with a gaping black hole of a mouth, his normally shining head of sun bleached hair would be dull, grimy, his hands and arms would be coated with blood, and his veins would be amplified, horribly visible and pulsating. He'd shake even more, horrified by what he saw. In a flash of anger, he would brush off all that which rested on the counter in one contemptuous sweep. Marik then would try too desperately scrub the blood off, but it was like a second skin: it wouldn't be removed. He could _feel_ the slick, suffocating sensation, and would scrub harder, rubbing his skin raw. Eventually he would actually be covered in blood from his manic efforts, and he would laugh insanely, pounding his fists into the mirror, effectively destroying it. And in the end he would curl up in the tub, finding comfort in the cold and indifferent porcelain. 

Marik would lay there until morning, not sleeping at all, just staring lifelessly. Then the morning sun would warm his skin, and he would stir, walking in a robotic fashion out to his balcony. There he would chain smoke until he ran out of cigarettes, and either he would go out and get more, or he would find a bar. Today, he felt like getting shit-faced. He wanted to obliterate his conscious, becoming aware of nothing and everything. He could never truly forget his nature. There were times when he loved it, his depravity; there were times when he thought nothing of it; there were times when it bothered him, like now. It wasn't quite disgust...rather, disappointment. He wanted to rule his urges, not for his urges to rule him. Then he would laugh bitterly, thinking, _What is man but a heap of vile impulses and water. What's the point in thinking I'm anything more? I know the truth, I live it perfectly. I'm the result of centuries of evolution, or devolution, as it were. Accept it. Love it. Bask in it. _

And so he arrived at the bar he frequented; it was inside The Black Diamond, a seedy hotel frequented by hookers of all shapes sizes and genders, amongst other low lives. Sometimes, if there were an attractive or interesting one, he'd take him, or even her at times, upstairs and slay him. He had a sort of...arrangement with the management. He paid them a tidy sum to allow him this privilege, in return they deflected police if necessary, cleaned up any stains, and disposed of the remains. The owner was a sick fuck known as Abraham. He had cameras set up in those rooms he specifically lent out to these special customers. He would sell the amateur snuff films on the side, a surprisingly handsome racket. And, of course, he would enjoy them himself in the privacy of his office or living room. He hated these customers. They were usually attractive, seductive, and narcissistic; he longed to be like one of them and resented the haughtiness they carried in his presence. But alas, he was not born with any beauty whatsoever and had no qualities with which to command respect. He was short, frail, woefully plain looking, and on in years. Furthermore, he was much too much of a coward to act on his sadistic, murderous desires. Instead, he lived vicariously through his unique patrons. He was lower than these people he despised; he knew it, making him even more bitter. 

As Marik entered the hotel and turned left to the bar, he could see Abraham's lizard-like yellow eyes gleaming from the reception desk, which was on his right, attempting to bore a hole in the center of his lovely forehead; he didn't deign to consider the little man. But as he approached the bar, he felt as though he were slapped in the face: there sat a beautiful boy with silvery hair and alabaster skin, slouching as if he were too good to sit upright in such an establishment. His impenetrable brown eyes, _like the most awful industrial smog, _were fixed on the ice cubes dancing about in his glass of knew he was no street walker, but he needed to find out more. The boy pulled him in like magnet does a ball bearing. Soon he found himself behind the male, smelling his hair. He smelt musky, glamorously filthy. It was clean, but it smelt the opposite. He wanted to fondle his ribcage, his obliques. For once he controlled himself. There was something amiss, Marik could sense it. This boy was unlike any other he had encountered. They say a psychopath can detect others of his ilk, like gays can sense other gays. It was intuitive. Usually, though, psychopaths avoided one another, as their manipulation and deceit had no affect; there was no victim to be had. So, suffice to say, Marik's "spider-sense was tingling." This one was different, however. He wasn't quite right, Marik could tell when he saw his eyes. They weren't empty and animalistic. They were...contemplative, and clouded. Marik smirked, _He is weak. But, I have no desire to destroy him. I want to hold him against my breast, for him to hear my absent heartbeat, to become stronger. _

"Are you just going to lurk in my periphery, or are you going to do something?" the boy said without turning. His voice sounded bored and frustrated.

"No, I shall make my move," Marik took the empty barstool to the boy's left. "You look troubled."

The boy laughed mirthlessly, "Hm. I don't think you are the compassionate type."

"You would be correct with that hypothesis, White One. However, that is not to say you do not pique my interest. By the way, I don't think you are the brooding type."

The boy cocked his head slightly, sizing up the man beside him from behind his bangs. "There is something I want, very much. And, it seems to be evading my grasp."

Marik's eyes narrowed in the least, "Must be some boy to rattle you like this."

"I do not get 'rattled', and even if I did, it wouldn't be over some _boy_."

"Don't bother. I saw you sulking like a high school girl who has no date for prom. I see everything, White One."

"Don't call me that."

"What then?"

"Why should I tell you."

"I'm not holding a gun to your head. But, I'll have to call you White One if I have no other alternative."

The boy huffed, "Fuck you, I'm leaving."

"No you're not." Marik hadn't seized his arm, but the boy felt like that was exactly what just happened.

"Oh?"

"I'm not finished with you yet. Now, Give me you're name, White One."

"It's Bakura, you asshole."

"Glad to make your acquaintance, Bakura," Marik jabbed him in the rib, "My name is Marik. And you'll know better than to insult me from now on."

Bakura glared at Marik with searing rage. No one fucked with him, "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Your superior."

"Is that so?" Bakura stood straight, quivering a little from the pain in his side.

"Yes. I like you. You have a spine, and you're fucking gorgeous. But. I can outdo you in anything. Wanna fistfight me? I'll leave you a bloody pulp. Think you can pound my asshole until I bleed? I'll tear you in fucking two. Consider your soul to be the most hideous to have existed? I'll show you the face of true evil. I have no desire to harm you, though. I want to...mentor you, as it were. I can make you into the paragon of immorality, if you want. I can give you the world. All you have to do is become mine, in every sense of the word. So. What do you say?"

Bakura listened with rapt attention. He found that his anger had changed to horror. _Is this guy for real? Does he really think I'll agree to be his slave? I'm no fool, I'm no bitch. _"I say, you're one fucking demented and grandiose bastard. And I'm not interested in what you have to offer." Bakura turned to leave.

"And what exactly are you, Bakura?" The White One stopped in his tracks. "I see right through you. You are just as demented, grandiose, and insufferable as I. You just look at yourself through a fractured lens. That keeps you from your true potential. I'll get rid of that for you."

"I'm nothing like you! I understand beauty and love! You're just a ravenous monster!"

"I see you aren't quite ripe yet. Disappointing. I'm a patient man, however. Unlike you. Here," Marik took Bakura's phone from his hand and added himself to his contacts, "Call me when you realize just who you are. You'll come to me, in time." Marik walked past Bakura, leaning in to whisper in his ear, " Because only I understand who you are." Marik left Bakura to stand frigidly in the barroom. _That was even better than drinking myself under the table!_

Bakura felt like dashing his mobile against the dirty black-and-white checkered tile floor. _He doesn't understand me! I'm not evil...I'm not. I'm not! I love Ryou...I take care of him. I could have left him alone, but no! I saved him. And he loves me! I know it. He says so. And that Malik...in time he too shall love me. No. I'm not inhuman. No... _Bakura slowly turned and walked away, back to the apartment. Back to his world. This one was cruel and disgusting. His...his was Heaven on Earth.

* * *

Malik was in a taxi back to his apartment. He had booked a modeling gig with a prominent clothing brand, and it went on longer than normal; the photographer was unbearably perfectionistic, a real piece of Euro trash. Then he and some of the other models partied rather...boisterously. So now it was three in the morning. He wanted to get drunk, but felt like he was sick after two drinks. He couldn't explain it. Of course he could. It was the encounter with Bakura. He almost wished he had just gone home when Bakura was late. Instead, he had exposed his underbelly. He had no way of knowing if Bakura had seen the extent of his misstep. He just appeared thrown off, especially after his turn around. 

_Why do I want him? He is utterly despicable. I specifically chose him because it would be the perfect punishment. I can't enjoy it...that would undo everything. Unless...my enjoying it is even more perfect. It shows just how low I am, and by forging a relationship with him...I commit the ultimate act of self-immolation. I'm a fraud, he's a fraud, the relationship is a fraud. Everything's a fucking fraud. The world. It's the biggest fraud of all. Nothing's as it seems, nothing's for sure, nothing's real. There is no hope, no love. Hope is just the most vicious of deceptions, love the most vicious of bromides. Hurt. That's the only certainty. Pain. Emotionally, physically. I...I have no expectation of anything else. Bakura...he's exactly what I deserve. He is my destiny. _Malik found that for the first time in years he was crying. He was getting close to the root, cutting through all the walls he had put up, the attempts at indifference and impermeability. _There was a time...when...No. No. Don't go there! This isn't what I fucking want! B-But, it's what I must have. It is the corollary to the contents of my heart and mind...What I want doesn't matter anymore. I...I don't matter anymore. Just this final act...it's almost over. _

"Hey kid. Kid!"

"Y-yes?"

"We're here."

"Oh...right. Sorry."

Malik paid the cab driver, giving him a larger tip than necessary, embarrassed for his emotional display, that he had to witness it.

"Hey thanks pal!" 

Malik approached the lobby of his apartment building, but just then he saw something in the corner of his eye, a flash of silver. He turned completely and he could have sworn Bakura just rounded the block by his building. _I must be going crazy. How in the hell would he know were I lived? Malik you need to get to fucking bed..._ He entered the lobby and waved to the doorman, a little to eagerly, finding that for once he was very glad of his presence. _No. There's no way he could get in the building, even if he did know where I lived, for some reason. But...he said that he always gets what he wants...would he...no. He's not a psycho. I was being a tease and it pissed him off._ He arrived at the fifth floor, exeunted the elevator, and walked down the hall on his right to his apartment. He wished that they had more illumination in these hallways. There were far too many shadows. _Jesus H. Christ Malik! Get a fucking grip! _He unlocked his door and walked in, flicking the switch for the hall light. He tossed his keys unceremoniously on the kitchen counter, undid his high-tops, and went to the fridge for a lemon La Croix; he spurned soda and all caloric drinks. He closed the door to the fridge and was about to open the can when the intercom went off, giving him an instant heart attack, and making him drop the can on his foot. 

"OH HOLY SHIT!" Malik nursed his maligned foot, "Goddamn...why the fuck would the doorman be calling at this hour?" He hobbled over the device, and pressed the talk button, "Yes, Gordon?"

"So sorry to disturb you at this very late hour, Mr. Ishtar. However, you have a guest saying you are expecting him. Shall I send him up?"

_NOT POSSIBLE! No...no...it can't be..._ "What did he say his name was, Gordon?"

"A Leo Fitzgerald for you, Mr. Ishtar."

_Thank Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the fucking saints! _"That's fine Gordon. Yes, you may send him up."

"Very good, Mr. Ishtar." 

Leo was his best friend. They met three years ago, when they were both new at the model agency for which Malik now worked. They bonded immediately, finding solace in each other's inexperience, and both having a flair for wearing heels, eating nothing but Nutella out of the jar, and watching 80's soap operas. Leo was the same age as Malik, 25, and was the more masculine of the two, if that said anything. He was the "comforter", as it were, and Malik was the "comforted." He had shoulder length black hair, skin a shade darker than Malik's, several ear piercings, and a killer smile. Malik heard a gentle knock at the door, and went to answer it. While Leo was obviously beautiful, he was shy and polite, not conceited and vapid like so many in the modeling industry. _He's almost courteous to a fault. But that's why I love him._

"Hey Leo," Leo kissed Malik gently on the cheek, which always made Malik blush despite his lack of innocence. He never encountered such kindness.

"Hello, my dear Mr. Mal." Malik stepped aside to allow Leo entrance. "I'm sorry I came by so late...but you weren't yourself at the shoot today. And then I hardly saw you at the party, and you left before I got a chance to talk to you..."

"It's okay Leo, you know you can drop by whenever."

"But, still..." Leo looked at the ground, embarrassed, and then Malik gave him a loving hug, nuzzling the taller man's chest.

"Oh Leo. You're too cute, you know that?"

"N-No, I didn't actually..." Leo returned the embrace slowly, but earnestly, blushing, and relishing this proximity. He had loved Malik from the first, but never voiced his feelings, afraid that it would taint their friendship. He didn't think very much of himself, and figured Malik would reject him in an instant. He was a model because everyone said he was beautiful, but he himself didn't see it. He just saw a plain, gawky boy from a small town in Pennsylvania who was always the subject of derision for the way he talked, the way he acted, the way girls flocked to him without his lifting a finger. He could always sense he was different somehow, but it wasn't until he met Malik did he know for sure. Malik made him feel...beautiful. He trusted him, he loved him. Malik was the only one in whom he trusted. He kept his troubles hidden beneath his outward kindness and optimism. He knew Malik had no one else to turn to for his problems. Leo wouldn't allow himself to be selfish, and always put Malik first, always comforting Malik, and never asking for comfort in return. Though, his being a rock for the younger man was a comfort in its own way; it gave him security. And, he relished any contact he could have with Malik. He had no way of knowing for sure Malik was upset tonight—it was just a feeling—or that he even needed his shoulder. But, he hoped. He didn't realize it, but he came to Malik's apartment at this unholy hour as much for himself as for Malik, maybe even more. 

"Oh you're being too modest!" They made their way to Malik's couch, Leo sitting in the corner, one leg tucked under the other, with Malik resting on his haunches, facing Leo. Leo thought that Malik looked like a little child whenever he sat like that; he loved it. "You should have more confidence in yourself."

"I know. I'm sorry...I came here to help you not me!" Leo laughed lightly, rustling his hair a bit nervously. "So...what's going on?"

"Well...it's kinda hard to explain. I met this guy, you see? Bakura. And...well, I like him. A lot. More than I should, more than logic dictates. But I do. He even frightens me a bit..."

"You're scared of him? Did he do something to you?" Leo's voice was saturated with concern.

"No! I mean, he seems sort of...obsessive. But it's my fault probably. I was leading him on, being a tease, and I can see how that would be frustrating. Anyway...I know he's not good. He's not sweet, moral, or even considerate. But...that's what I like. He's so imperfect, so bad, that it becomes its own form of perfection. He doesn't bullshit. He is what he is, and doesn't apologize. I never...expected to fall in love, I don't even believe it exists anymore. I know I'll never be happy. It's impossible in this world, implicitly. Because the world is irrational, arbitrary, unfair. How could love or happiness exist in such a place? So...misery is the only alternative."

"Misery? You don't mean that Malik! It can't be that one's life is meant to be miserable...that's not right. That doesn't makes sense! What's the point in living if misery were all there was?"

"No, it's not right...and to tell you the truth, I don't see much point to life. All I know is I'm afraid to die; I don't want to die, so I live. But...that's how it is. You know, when I was a kid? I had this _thing _for perfection. I was pretty anal. When I played with toy cars I'd always line them up perpendicularly. I didn't so much a play with them as organize him," Malik laughed slightly at his reminiscence. "I still have that obsession. So, I figure if I can't have perfect happiness, I'll have perfect misery. And a life with Bakura would be perfect misery. He can't love, only take, only desire. He can't make me happy, only give me pleasure, only use me. A life from moment to uncertain moment...with nothing. Absolutely nothing. Don't you see? It's perfect."

"Malik I..."

"That's why I was upset. I was...processing all that. I hate him. He makes me uneasy, like he is capable of anything..." Malik was shivering now. Leo took him in his arms, holding his head gently. He didn't say anything. He didn't judge Malik, didn't try to make him see something he couldn't or wouldn't see. He just held him; they just _were_. Malik's breathing evened out, and soon Leo could tell Malik had fallen asleep.

"Oh Malik!" Leo whispered, "_I...I_ would love you! I'd make sure you'd feel it everyday of your life. But...you must live life by your own heart. Why can't you see? Why can't you see how much I love you?" Leo found his eyelids growing heavier and heavier, and he too drifted off to slumber. A picture of perfect comfort, for two creatures who seemed incapable of finding it in everyday life.

**A/N: I tried hard to not make Malik too weepy and complainy...I hope I succeeded. But I needed him to break down a wee bit *uses thumb and index finger to indicate a VERY small amount* 'Cause I don't like Malik being all weak. Did ya like Leo? :D I wuv him. I made him up exactly as I realized "Oh shit. I can't have Bakura actually come to the apartment! Anti-climax much? Um...Best friend! That's the ticket! Um...Leo! That's a cool name!" And voila! Leo Fitzgerald was born. Hehehe...and I hope the 'Kura/Mariku meeting was okay...that for some reason was tough to write... **

**Please R&R ^^**


	7. Old Habits

**A/N: Wow! 20 reviews! I'm so proud! *super sonic squeal* Many thanks to Calm Envy for reviewing the entire story so far in one fell swoop. ^^ Since it's Halloween and all, and because my Muse of Sadism was inspiring me, I figured I would write a rather horror-rific chappie. Well, at least the first part is. I was missing writing the abuse and gore! So I hope this is a good fix. Happy Halloween my darling readers! :D OH! One more thing. The flashback looks like this: _flashback, i.e. bold italics. _**

**Warning: Violence. Much. And some Language. **

"You know? I haven't indulged in torture for quite some time. I never considered myself particularly sadistic. Psychotic? Yes. Cruel? Absolutely. Evil? Very. But, sadism always seemed so...messy to me, so blasé. The taking of lives is truly a high art. It's what I like to call an "Inverse Art." You see, art is meant to worship life, to show man's glory. Just look at Michelangelo's _David _and you'll immediately understand what I mean. Conversely, murder worships death, it evinces man's utter depravity. As I trace my blade across your virginal flesh, as I shatter your bones, as I remove your young heart...I'm on my knees, paying homage to Satan. You...you are my masterpiece. One of many. But. I seem to have digressed, haven't I?" 

The boy strapped to Marik's hotel bed tried to scream, but the gag put a quick end to that. He thrashed and whined, a paragon of ignominy. Marik sneered. "You're so typical. At any rate, torture is hardly artistic. Let's say...it's the shitty slasher flick to my _Gone with the Wind. _However, it's not to say you don't enjoy the shlock every now and again. My sadism is like a rash. It comes and goes...but when it does flare, I need to itch it something fierce. Which brings me back to you—what was your name again? What was that? Oh I'm sorry you're gonna have to speak up more." Marik removed the gag with mocking gentility. 

"Let me go! Let me go, please! Please! I don't wanna die! I don't wanna die! Y-You don't have to—"

"Do this? Oh, darling I simply must. I value my release much more than I value your life. Now, I believe that I asked you your name."

"S-Screw you! You...you sick freak!" A harsh slap.

"You are in no position to insult me. The more you resist, the longer this process becomes. Your name."

"I-Issac..."

"Ah Issac..." Marik suddenly broke into an almost child-like fit of laughter, "I'm sorry, it's just so ironic. I'm afraid, Metatron, or anyone else for that matter, will not be coming to save you."

"W-Why...this isn't fair! I did nothing _wrong_!"

"So?"

"...what?" Issac's voice was pitifully small.

"It doesn't matter if you did nothing wrong. I'm killing you because you happened to be at the bar downstairs wearing that skimpy little black tank top, those red hot-pants, those black leggings, those black leather boots...not to mention your shoulder length, luxurious sienna tresses. I thought you were attractive; you were at the wrong place at the wrong time. So, yes. It isn't fair. Of course, the universe rarely deals in kindness and justice." Issac started sobbing wretchedly, "I wish for once a victim of mine would surprise me. It's so...cliche: the weeping, the bargaining, the harassing, the pleading. I'm not going to change my mind; I'm not going to give you mercy. I wish for once a victim of mine would die with a semblance of grace." Marik had been hovering above Issac's face, gazing into his eyes with anger, acting the consummation of arrogance. Issac took the opportunity to spit in his face.

"How the fuck would you act, asshole! You're saying you're going to torture me and—" Marik replaced the gag.

"I don't deal in pointless hypotheticals. Do you think the rabbit asks the fox what he would do if the tables were turned? I'm the predator, and you're the prey. A metaphysical given, if you will. It's fruitless to employ pathos: I have no empathy. But, I guess you do make an interesting point. I shouldn't expect so much from little shits who were fool enough to fall for my manipulation in the first place. Perhaps I'm too much of an idealist. Oh well. I think I'm done waxing philosophic for now. Why don't we get down to the nitty gritty, hm?" Issac's eyes widened in fear.

Marik left the bedside and walked evenly to the chair that faced the bed, retrieving a rusted tool box. "Now. I figured I'd work up to using my favorite weapon, my knife. So, I brought some other amusing little party favors. He opened the withered container and inspected it contents with an overblown enthusiasm, "Let's see what have we here...hmmm...oh! Pliers...we could have a right good time with these..." he approached Issac menacingly, squeezing and releasing the handle of the tool, making the pincering open and close. "My father was a dentist. He made sure we took excellent care of our pearly whites. See?" Marik opened his mouth to reveal a set of rather fierce looking teeth. "I noticed yours were lovely as well. I bet you'll miss having such a perfect smile..." Marik could hear the horrified noises coming from Issac's suppressed oral cavity. He forcefully punched him in the throat, removed the gag, and tore out his top left incisor. The amount of blood that evacuated the exposed gum surprised Marik, in the best sense of course. He extracted Issac's front two teeth on the upper jaw. He knew that all the sanguinity seeping down his playmates esophagus must be positively ghastly. Streams of tears were pouring down Issac's face. He replaced the gag, by now the boy's voice had recovered and proceeded to scream profusely.

"That was much more amusing than I anticipated! Where else can I employ this handy dandy friend of mine...ah let me take off your boots and socks. Then you'll be much more comfortable." Issac's head was furiously shaking back and forth, for he knew what was too follow. "Now, now. Don't fuss. This will be much better." This young man had beautiful toes: slender, nicely sized, with finely manicured nails. "I suppose you shall have a tough time walking from now on...well. We must adapt to survive, mustn't we? Oh right! You're going to die...I guess it makes no difference, then, does it?" He clamped the pincers about the boy's big toe on his left foot and applied pressure slowly but surely. The skin was breaking, Issac was writhing in pain. Then he heard bone crunching, a wonderful sound that Marik had missed. Soon enough, the phalange was severed, and blood spilled onto the cheap hotel quilt. He followed up with the middle toe on the same foot before switching feet, relieving Issac of his index, ring, and pinky toes. The blood was running down onto the carpet now. Issac was an absolute blithering mess. Marik replaced the pliers in their container with a contented sigh, exchanging them for a philips head screw driver.

"Which eye do you like best, Issac?" Marik thought he could hear the boy's heart cease its beating. "I always thought an eyepatch over the left eye looked pretty cool, didn't you?" Issac's eyes clamped shut in fear. Marik gripped Issac's face with his left hand, pushing his head into the pillow, making sure he wouldn't make any rash movements. Then, he plunged the star-ended rod into the left eye, being careful not to go too deep. The squish and resistance Marik experienced were divine. With a twist and a yank, Marik had an ocular shish kebab. The remainder of the optic nerve lay against Issac's eye socket like a piece of limp spaghetti. "Don't worry. I'll let you keep your other eye. What's the point in torture if the victim can't witness whats transpiring?" Issac resembled a fish flopping on dry land; such was the extent of the physical manifestations of the pain he was feeling.

Once again Marik switched up torture instruments, this time kneeling between Issac's splayed legs with a hammer. "Say, Issac? How good are your reflexes?"

* * *

_**Ryou clutched his blanket tightly between his little fingers. He was twelve years old. His father's advances were becoming more and extreme. Their "playtime", as his father called it, had yet to escalate to outright sodomy. However, Ryou had been subjected to...other acts a child shouldn't have been. He rarely slept anymore. He found that this was the time when his father most often came. Ryou's mother worked the night shift at the local hospital, so his father had no fear of his actions being discovered. Right now, though, Ryou knew he was watching T.V., for he could hear the telltale noises of a certain type of video entertainment. His father liked to watch those. Sometimes, he made Ryou watch with him. Ryou hated it; but he had no way of resisting. **_**Bakura...Bakura I need you... ****_Ryou thought. As if his thoughts traversed space and time, he heard a soft rapping at his window. He quickly tossed his sheets of of his small frame and hurried to the window. Ryou drew the blinds and saw Bakura's smiling face. He wanted to scream with excitement, but he managed to suppress the urge. Bakura mouthed _Is the coast clear?, _and Ryou gave an affirmative nod. He unlocked and drew the pane, helping his only friend into the room. Then Ryou flung himself into Bakura's expectant arms, Bakura clutching and comforting the smaller boy as he cried softly onto his black shirt. _**

"_**Shh, shh Ryou...it's okay...don't cry too loudly...that's better..."**_

"_**Oh 'Kura! I've missed you so much! I'm all alone here...and F-Father he..."**_

"_**Come, let's sit on the bed okay?"**_

"_**Okay."**_

_**Bakura sat on the edge of the bed, with Ryou lying horizontally and resting his head on Bakura's lap. "I'm so sorry Ryou...I'm so sorry I can't protect you from him...but, you understand why I have to stay away, don't you?"**_

"_**Y-yes..."**_

"_**He hates me, Ryou. He'd kill me in an instant if he had the chance."**_

"_**I know...I don't want you to get hurt. Are you safe, though? Do you have enough to eat and everything?" Ryou had noticed Bakura felt thinner and worried about his health.**_

"_**Yeah, I'm fine little buddy. Don't worry about me..." Bakura smiled softly, touched by Ryou's concern, when he was obviously the one enduring the worst. He felt his eyes water, "I'm staying with some...friends. And, we make do. I'm not on the streets, that's what matters. H-How are you, though? How much has Father, uh..."**_

"_**It hasn't been to bad, 'Kura. It depends on how much he drinks, how much he and Mom are fighting. It's only been two times this week..." He felt Bakura tensing with anger. When he got like this, Bakura scared Ryou a bit. He knew it was only because of how protective he was, though. Bakura drew Ryou closer. Exactly who was comforting whom was uncertain, but that didn't matter. **_

"_**He'll pay, Ryou. One day...I'll make him pay for what he's done to you. I promise you that. I'll always protect you, I'll always love you. **_

_**Silent tears fell down Ryou's flushed cheeks, but he smiled through them, "And I'll always love you, 'Kura."**_

"_**A-Always, Ryou...no matter what?"**_

_**He looked up at Bakura, his bleary eyes shining with pure devotion, "No matter what."**_

_**Bakura pulled Ryou's angelic face toward his, and kissed him with the utmost love and tenderness. "Oh Ryou...how I've missed you..." Then they heard the T.V. Shut off, stirring in the living room. Both of their breathes' hitched, and Bakura reluctantly removed Ryou from his lap, "I have to go now! I'm sorry! He might hear us, or worse, he'll come in and find us together."**_

"_**I know...w-when can I see you again?"**_

"_**I'll try to come by next week. I'll do my best I promise, but I have to work and—"**_

"_**It's okay! I understand, now hurry!"**_

_**Bakura quickly kissed Ryou on the cheek, "Soon Ryou. Soon we'll be together, forever." And then he was out the window and into the night with the ease and stealth of a feline. **_

_**Ryou closed and locked the window, "Come back to me soon...I can't live without you..." Then he lowered the blinds, lowered himself into bed, and tried his best to drift off too sleep. **_

Ryou gazed at the full moon that seemed to occupy the entirety of the bedroom window, listening to Bakura's gentle breathing as he slept. He smiled softly, "I still can't live without you..."

* * *

Leo awoke with the blinding light of midday accosting his eyes, and a still-slumbering Malik curled up against his chest. He couldn't help but to smile, _He looks like a little boy when he sleeps...so adorable, so innocent...as though there weren't a single problem in the world. I wish I could just hold him like this forever..._ Leo gently ran his fingers through Malik's hair with a sensuous delight. He looked at the tanned boy's supple supple, yet petite lips. They were parted slightly, as Malik breathed lightly. It would be so easy to steal a kiss...no. He wouldn't do that. It wouldn't mean anything...and he would be violating Malik's trust. He wanted a kiss that Malik wanted as well; though, he feared that was just a naïve pipe dream. _I'm being so silly...in all the time I've known him, he's never seen me as anything more than a friend, than a big brother...it's foolish of me to harbor these feelings! But...they don't seem to die. In fact, they only seem to grow with time. _He brushed the hair out of Malik's face, tucking it behind his ear, and tenderly caressed his smooth cheek. Then he simply just lay there, enjoying the pleasant warmth of the noontide sun, the sensation of having another human so close. He didn't know how much time had past, but eventually Malik's luminous eyes fluttered open, slowly turning his face upward meet Leo's gaze, smiling with that childish joy,

"Good morning Leo."

"It's more like afternoon...but, good morning to you, too, Malik."

"Ahaha! So it is. Well, we were up late enough. I guess we're entitled to sleep in, hm?"

"I think so," Leo replied with a warm grin.

"I'd ask if I could fix you something to eat, but all I have is sparkling water, vodka, and Carnation Instant Breakfast."

"Malik...I keep telling you to eat better..."

Malik mock-scowled, "Hey! Not all of us like sweating our butts off at the gym! If I want to stay this thin I have to eat next to nothing."

"You could get healthy foods! It's not that hard to make—"

"In case you have forgotten, I don't cook. I don't even think I could make Easy Mac."

Leo chuckled heartily, "You're hopeless, you know that?"

"Well...I guess I'm lucky then to have a big strong man like you to take care of me." With that Malik pecked Leo on the cheek and wriggled out of his loving embrace. "_I_ am going to take a shower and then _you_ are going to take me out to lunch, 'kay?"

"I thought you just said you have to starve yourself," Leo said, arching an eyebrow.

"By lunch I meant Starbucks," Malik countered over his shoulder with a playful wink. 

Once Malik closed the bathroom door behind him he breathed a heavy sigh, "I can't fall for him...I can't. He thinks I don't know...how much he loves me. I'd be lying if I said I didn't love him too..." Malik opened the shower stall door and ran the shower near scalding. "No. I can't love him. He deserves someone better than I. I-Im...bankrupt. I can't afford to hope; I can't afford to love." He denuded, then felt something in his pocket, his cell phone. "I must have left it there overnight..." A face materialized before him, a contemptuous, mocking, gorgeous face. He scrolled through the received calls list, finding the number and called. It rang once, twice, thrice,

"Hello?"

"Can I come to your apartment tonight?"

"Ah, if it isn't my sweet, cockblocking Malik."

"Just answer my question."

"...you sound tired. Are you alright?"

"Y-Yeah...I just woke up."

"Oh. Well, I don't see why not. You must do something for me first though."

Malik sighed heavily, "What?"

"On your knees."

"...I _need_ to see you tonight, Bakura."

"I'm sorry, that wasn't desperate enough for me."

"I _fucking neeeed_ to see you tonight, Bakura,"

"Mmmm. That's better. Now, you just run along and take your shower. Before you ask, I can hear the water running. Blow a load for me, will you?" Malik hung up, disgusted at all parties concerned. _As it should be._ He stepped into the shower, hissing as the hot water met his flesh. 

Even after he had washed all the corners of his body, he still felt unclean. It seemed to be his natural state these days. He wrapped a towel around his waist and sauntered into his bedroom, throwing on a quick outfit of Sperry topsiders, tight-fitting stonewashed capris, and a long sleeved white cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up. He fetched his Dior sunglasses off his dresser and set them atop his head.

"You ready Leo?"

He hesitated an instant. Malik looked stunning, despite the simplicity of the apparel, "Y-yeah, you bet."

**A/N: I guess that was rather dichotomous, the torture and then the fluff. Hehehe I really wanna work on R & B's past, so I'm trying to work that in. I hope this wasn't too short...I was gonna prolong the torture scene, but then I felt like I was stepping into _Hostel_ territory. Well, I guess I did already. Hehheh...**

**Please R&R! ^^**


	8. AN

**Consider this my resignation.**

**I have essentially died on the inside and find that I am no longer able to right this story, or anything in general. I shan't bore you with details, but it seems I am losing my battle with depression.**

**I apologize, and hope that my few readers shall understand.**

**My experiment with writing fanfiction was short lived, about three months, but I did enjoy it for a time and I would like to think it wasn't a total failure. **

**If I write anything, it shall be original fiction. I'll try to post it on my fictionpress account if I do. **

**However, I shall still be as active as I can on this site, reading and reviewing stories. This is a farewell to the broken author who endeavored maladroitly to write fanfic.**

**XOXO**

**the upward glance **

**(Malcolm)**


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